


From Which They Never Recovered

by YourPalYourBuddyYourBucky



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky Barnes Remembers, Foul Mouthed Bucky, Jealousy, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 13:23:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7053451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YourPalYourBuddyYourBucky/pseuds/YourPalYourBuddyYourBucky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.”</i>
</p><div class="center">
  <p><br/>― F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise</p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	From Which They Never Recovered

Steve Rogers is fully convinced that the living room in his DC apartment has the best lighting in the whole state, maybe the whole country. The windows are large and open, letting in the perfect amount of light at all hours of the day. When the sun sets, it’s Steve’s favorite. Hues of pink, gold, and orange cast dancing shadows against the walls. Even as dark blue and greys streak across the sky in the west, threatening to overtake the more vibrant colors, the lighting is absolutely perfect for sketching.

And god had Steve missed sketching. It was easy, familiar. There was a certain security and comfort in doing something he had been doing practically his entire life. It had started out simple enough, a small drawing here and there in the corner of one of his school assignments. Then one day his mother Sarah bought him a sketch book, and it all escalated from there, because Steve Rogers never half-assed anything, when he loved something, he _truly_ loved it. Sarah had noticed his love for drawing from the get go, always smiling whenever her blue eyed, blonde haired little boy asked for any scrap of paper he could get his hands on. Paper and pencils weren’t pricey, even back then, and it was one of the few things Sarah would splurge on in order to see her son’s face light up.

The hobby stayed with him for years, and his talent grew. Tiny sketches in the corner of a math assignment turned into beautiful, detailed, full page sketches that even Steve found himself proud of. He even brought his newest sketchbook along with him when he joined the Army. But then the plane went down. Steve’s love for sketching changed. That’s when _everything_ changed.

It was a hobby that seemed to remain frozen even after Steve had thawed out after crashing that plane in the icy water all of those year ago. Since drawing had provided such a leveled, at home feeling for him in the past, it was one of the first activities he tried when he found himself alive and well in the twenty first century. But more times than not, he found himself staring at a blank white page, and felt an impatient, swelling rage in his chest. So he stopped drawing.

At least until now.

Recently, he found himself in an art supply store picking out a new, leather bound sketch book with inspiration thrumming through his body as he ran his hand down the sleek spine of the book. Suddenly, for the first time in years, he had a muse. A muse that included bewildered blue eyes, a familiar face, and a glinting metal arm.

So when Tony Stark extended an offer to Steve to come to New York and move into the Avengers compound, he politely declined with the excuse that he knew New York, and New York just didn’t have the kind of lighting his DC apartment provided. The excuse was weak. Tony knew that. Hell, even Steve knew that. So Steve’s cell phone continued to fill up with texts from Tony, Natasha, Bruce, and Clint, trying to convince him to move in. Between the time of the alien attack on New York, and the recent events of Hydra infiltrating Shield, the rest of them had slowly moved in one by one. Between Tony’s lavish accommodations, and how much easier the close proximity made assembling, it didn’t take them much convincing at all. Even Natasha had caved recently, arguing that she didn’t trust the guys to rattle around all by themselves. But with Steve it was a little different. Of course there was a part of him that longed for New York, that pined to be just a thirty minute or so drive from Brooklyn, from his home. In fact, moving into the compound had a lot of perks. There was only one thing stopping Steve from moving in within the blink of an eye, but that one thing was more important than anything else in the world.

That one thing was Bucky.

Steve had been searching for Bucky with Sam’s help nonstop the last couple of months. They had ended up having few leads, all of which quickly ended up being a cold trail that didn’t help locate Bucky in the least bit. Sam ignorantly liked to remind Steve _maybe you can’t find him because he doesn’t want to be found_ but Steve refused to believe it even though he knew it was probably true. If Bucky wanted to see Steve, if he wanted to come back so him, he knew where Steve lived. Hell, that was the reason Steve refused to leave his DC apartment in the first place. What if Bucky came back and Steve wasn’t there? Steve just couldn’t risk that.

 

It was a day like any other day. Steve was sprawled out across his couch, his sketchbook in his lap and a pencil in his hand. He was working on a piece he had started shortly after he had gotten out of the hospital after the helicarrier had went down. No one else’s eyes had fallen on the drawing, but it wouldn’t surprise anyone to know that it was a sketch of Bucky. He had originally intended for the sketch to be light and simplistic, intentionally lacking detail, but the moment he had started on Bucky’s face, it became something entirely different. It wasn’t long before he was spending hours getting the perfect shading of the dip in his chin, and the proper curve of his lips. He was currently working on Bucky’s eyes, and he felt like he could spend days on each eye and still not be able to capture the constellations that were trapped in their blue.

A knock at the door jarred Steve from the concentration on his drawing. He placed his sketchbook on his coffee table, setting the pencil next to it before hopping up to greet his guest. When he opened the door, he was only a little shocked to see Sam on the other side.

“Hey man, don’t know how to answer the phone?” Sam said, shoving past him uninvited, his arms full. He placed the bags on the kitchen counter, and Steve could smell the Chinese takeout before Sam even opened them.

“Sorry, I must’ve left my phone on vibrate somewhere.” Steve replied, shutting the door and walking over to his friend. “I didn’t… miss anything, did I?”

Sam pressed his mouth into a thin line to stop a frown from forming on his lips. He didn’t need to ask to know that Steve was really asking if there were any leads on Bucky that he possibly missed. “Other than me trying to get you to grab some dinner? No. But luckily for you, I’m the best damn friend you could ask for, and I brought dinner to you.” Sam grinned up at Steve, hoping it didn’t come across as too forced.

Steve huffed out a small laugh. “Yeah? Well, thanks. You didn’t have to do that.” Steve hadn’t realized he hadn’t eaten all day until his stomach rumbled, demanding attention after smelling the food.

“I know I didn’t… you have a bigger TV than me, and the fight is on tonight.” Sam replied sheepishly. Steve resisted the urge to roll his eyes while Sam made himself at home. He grabbed his portion of the food and made his way to the fridge to grab a beer. Steve didn’t mind. He couldn’t get drunk anyway. The beers were in there solely for when his friends came over. Steve grabbed the remainder of the food, catching a beer that Sam tossed his way with ease. He really couldn’t argue with Sam coming over uninvited, he would never outright admit it, but Steve knew Sam was _worried_ about him, and the UFC fight was probably just an excuse to make sure Steve wasn’t losing his mind, roping clues about Bucky together with red string on wall like some obsessed serial killer. Even if Sam wasn’t subtly keeping an eye on him, Steve still wouldn’t object, he had quickly and easily become one of Steve’s best friends.

Steve followed Sam into the living room, plopping down on the couch next to him. He grimaced slightly as Sam kicked his feet up on the coffee table. “Feet off the table.” He muttered, popping the cap off of his beer and eyeing his sketchbook nervously. Sam didn’t seem to notice it.

Sam sighed dramatically but obliged, opening his own beer. He reached for his chopsticks, opening a container of shrimp fried rice. Steve reached for his fork, shaking his head. He would never be able to figure out why people used chopsticks when forks were way more efficient. Sam didn’t seem to have a problem with their efficiency.

 

The fight was slightly mind numbing, and Steve was thankful for it. He couldn’t help but mentally critique both fighter’s fighting strategies, but Sam seemed to get enjoyment out of it, and was yelling and cheering at the TV enough for the both of them. Sam chugged the rest of his beer, rubbing his full stomach after he did so. He gave a satisfied sigh before sitting the empty beer bottle on the coffee table. Steve watched as Sam’s eyes flickered over to his sketchbook on the other side of the table, noticing it for the first time. Steve froze.

“Holy shit, did you _draw_ that?” Sam asked, standing up to grab the sketchbook before Steve could even reply. Steve felt heat crawl up his neck and across his cheeks, he hadn’t expecting his artwork to be under scrutiny any time soon. Especially not an incredibly detailed drawing of _Bucky_. “Dude, this is _amazing_ Have you always been able to draw like this?” Sam was in complete awe, the fight on TV completely forgotten.

Steve rubbed his hand against the back of his neck nervously. The only people that had ever seen his drawings were his mother, Bucky, and Peggy, and with Peggy it had been accident. She had just so happened to walk up behind him while he was drawing during the war. “I used to draw a lot before the war. Well, during too. I just sort of… stopped when I woke up. I decided to pick it up again recently.” Sam just nodded, his eyes scanning over the picture, absorbing the detail like he might be tested on it later.

He finally sighed, sitting the sketchbook back down on the coffee table and looking over at Steve. “You know… _if_ we find him, he’s not going to be the same guy you remember, Cap. They never are.”

“I know.” Steve replied quietly. “I’m not the same guy he probably remembers either. But that didn’t stop him from pulling me from the water, from saving my life.”

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “What if he didn’t? What if you just washed up on shore? C’mon man, you gotta know that’s a possibility-“

“It was Bucky, Sam.” Steve said firmly, his eyes staring daggers through Sam.

Sam threw up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. I get it.” He gave Steve a devilish grin. “And what would Mr. Scary Winter Soldier say if he knew you were drawing him looking like a super model?” His voice was light and teasing, trying to lighten the mood. Steve rolled his eyes and threw his beer cap at him. He couldn’t think of a smart ass come back, and he honestly didn’t know how to answer the question. Sure, Bucky had seen plenty of his drawings before, but he had never seen any of the drawings of _himself_. Steve had always ripped those out, or kept them in a different sketchbook. Sam just shot him a grin when he realized he wasn’t going to get a reply. He rummaged through all his trash and leftover food around him. “Hey! They forgot my fortune cookie.” He muttered, sounding personally offended.

“Serves you right.” Steve said grinning and finding his immediately. Sam shot him a look before returning his eyes to the television screen as though he hadn’t missed any of the fight. Steve opened the plastic wrapping and cracked open the fortune cookie, allowing half of it to fall into his lap as he removed the little piece of paper from the rest of the shell. It was the side with the lucky numbers and he ignored them, flipping the paper to the other side with the actual fortune. ‘ _Someone from your past will return._ ’ It was cheesy, but the timing was perfect…and Steve found himself cramming the fortune in his pocket with a smile on his face.

☆☆☆

The Asset’s finger curled around the trigger of his sniper rifle as he looked through the scope at the man in Captain America’s apartment. _This man comes over relatively frequently._ The Asset had been keeping track of it from a rooftop a few buildings away. In fact, _this man comes to Captain America’s apartment more than anyone._ The Asset’s finger twitched slightly, itching to pull the trigger. He growled and removed his finger from the gun. _Captain America- no, **Steve** enjoys this man’s company. Steve would not be happy if he were killed. This man makes Steve happy, he makes him smile…_ the thought made the Asset’s finger wrap around the trigger again, and he’s not sure why.

The man’s name is Sam. He’s heard Steve say it on multiple occasions when he is over. The Asset repeats the name in his head over and over, hoping that the repetition will make him remember it. He no longer has a handler, he no longer has people that strap him in a chair and make him forget… but memories are often still fleeting. So he repeats himself, a _lot_. The Asset- _No, god dammit, my name is **Bucky** , BUCKY _ isn’t sure who Sam is to Steve. He only knows that Sam comes over a lot, and when he’s there, Steve smiles a lot, and Bucky likes it when Steve smiles, because it’s welcoming, it’s familiar. But something about it being Sam making him smile _bothers_ Bucky. He takes his finger off of the trigger once more, reminding himself that Steve wouldn’t want Sam dead, so he shouldn’t kill him, even though it would be easy to, because _Steve Rogers is a god damn idiot_. An entire organization wants him, wants Captain America dead, and yet Steve seems to insist on living in the most open, brightly lit apartment in all of Washington DC. Steve either doesn’t realize how fucking stupid that is, or doesn’t care. Bucky isn’t sure which is worse. All he does know is that the past couple of months have been _exhausting_ because Bucky has to keep an eye on him _constantly_ because Steve is a _moron_ who doesn’t seem to realize that laying low might be a good idea when _Hydra_ wants his head on a stake.

Then again, Bucky knows that Steve isn’t aware of exactly the kind of things that Hydra is capable of. At least not like Bucky does. No one knows it quite like Bucky does.

Bucky blinks hard, clearing the stinging from his eyes. Something that Hydra did to him, something in the serum sharpened his eyesight, and it’s actually something that he’s thankful for. He had been watching Sam’s every move since he entered Steve’s apartment, barely blinking at all. He doesn’t want to take his eyes off of Sam, he isn’t sure if Sam can be trusted. Bucky knows Sam hasn’t tried to hurt Steve yet, but he also knows that he had never tried to hurt Steve until he was _compromised_. He notices Steve’s shield leaned against the couch next to him, and he relaxes a little bit, at least enough to back away from his sniper rifle and rub his weary eyes. Steve will be okay for a few minutes.

Rummaging through his backpack carefully, Bucky pulls out his notebook. It’s not in the most pristine condition. The cover is worn, and some of the pages are frayed or warped from getting wet. But it’s _his_ , Bucky _owns_ things now. Things that other people can’t take from him. His heartbeat speeds up at the thought and he swallows dryly, reminding himself that he won’t let that happen. Not again.

Bucky takes out a pen and flips to a blank page, using his metal fingers very carefully. In hurried yet focused, slanted writing, he sprawls ‘ _Find out more about Sam.’_ He reads over the line a few times because _what if the fucking page gets ripped out?_ before closing the notebook and shoving it back in his backpack, zipping it securely. He peers back through the scope again, and his body goes rigid. Sam and Steve are no longer in his sight. _Where the fuck is Steve?_ He positions the sniper differently, panic building in his chest as his hands shake too hard to focus the scope.

He finds them quickly, and breaths an audible sigh of relief. Sam seems to be leaving. Steve’s hands are jammed in his pants pockets and he’s laughing freely at something Sam says. Bucky huffs a frustrated sigh, wishing that Steve would’ve left the windows open again today so that he could hear what’s so goddamn funny.

Sam goes to leave, and he and Steve hug briefly. Sam’s mouth is close to Steve’s ear, and Bucky can see it moving, but he can’t _hear_ what he’s saying and Bucky almost pulls the trigger right then and there because Sam is _touching_ Steve and Bucky has no idea what his intentions are. A relieved, Russian curse word escapes Bucky’s lips when they finally let go, and Sam exits Steve’s apartment.

Bucky uses the scope to follow Steve through his apartment as Steve brushes his teeth in the bathroom. He follows him as he cleans up the food wrappers and empty beer bottles in the living room. He follows him until he gets to his bedroom. It’s the room closest to where Bucky has been camping out, and he doesn’t need to use his rifle to see Steve. He takes a shaky breath, relaxing for the first time all day as Steve flops down on his bed, reaching for his phone. Bucky mirrors his move, flopping down on his own ‘bed’. Truth be told, it barely even resembles a bed. It’s made up of newspapers and misplaced pieces of cloth, anything to make the concrete roof seem softer. It’s not the worst living conditions he’s had by far. It’s more of a bed than Hydra ever gave him. And besides… it’s _his_.

A shiver runs through Bucky’s body, and he realizes that it’s began to drizzle. He pulls the hood of his hoodie up over his head and far as he can get it to go, and zips the hoodie up. The hat he’s wearing helps block the rainfall from his eyes, and he watches as Steve snuggles into his sheet, his back rising and falling as he sighs heavily, settling for the evening. And suddenly, Bucky is jealous of Steve. He’s jealous of the nice, warm bed that he gets to sleep in at night. A small voice in Bucky’s head attempts to remind him that he could have that. Steve would let him have that. All he would have to do is let Steve know he was there. Bucky ignores that voice, because that voice is stupid, and he’s not entirely sure who the voice belongs to. It’s familiar but faint, and he’s not sure if it can be trusted.

A sudden movement on the Steve’s fire escape catches Bucky’s eyes, and he jumps to his feet much faster than the average human being could. In that same swift movement, his handgun goes from its holster to his hand. He slowly approached the edge of the roof he’s been perched on, and drops down to its own fire escape, significantly quieter and faster than the person on Steve’s fire escape. The culprit is veiled in the shadows, and Bucky can’t make out his face. But he doesn’t need to see it. His training tells him everything he needs to know. _Male. 5’10’, approximately 230 pounds. Lack of coordination and stealth shows no formal training of any kind. Threat level: 1. Maybe 2, depending on how stupid the individual is. Steve seems to attract stupid people_. Bucky hops to the next fire escape easily, and momentarily accesses the situation. _Mission: Protect Steve, preferably without Steve knowing._ Bucky pockets the gun and pulls his knife out instead, jumping onto Steve’s fire escape and directly onto the suspicious individual. The person’s body hit the fire escape with a thud and a huff of air, the wind knocked out him.

“Who the fuck are you?” Bucky growls in his ear. The guy’s stomach is pressed against the flooring of the fire escape. Bucky’s flesh hand is in his hair, pulling it back, exposing the fragile flesh of his throat that his metal hand presses a knife to.

“P-Preston!” The man splutters, craning his neck as far away from the knife as possible. He coughs and wheezes as the movement restricts his airway.

“Why are you on Steve’s fire escape?”

“Hey, it’s not like he _owns_ the thing-“ Bucky tightens his grip on the knife, sliding it across the Preston’s throat just enough for a couple of drops of blood to bubble out. “Okay, okay!” I’m sneaking out, alright? I use this part of the fire escape because it’s further away from my parents bed. C’mon dude, I’m just trying to smoke a joint out here…” Preston’s voice in pleading and wet, and that’s when Bucky realizes…. He’s just a kid. _Threat level: 0_ Bucky let’s go of him, stumbling back and almost dropping his knife.

“You’re a fucking _kid_.” He mumbles, pocketing the knife.

“Yeah, and apparently you’re a psychopath!” Preston squeaks, scrambling as far away from Bucky as possible, holding his hand to his barely bleeding throat.

Bucky smirks, because he almost wants to roll his eyes. _This kid has no idea._ “Go to another fire escape, kid.” Bucky commands. Preston looks like he wants to argue, then remembers that there’s a guy wearing all black and wielding _weapons_ is telling him to do something, and quickly begins to scurry down the fire escape, still holding his neck.

Bucky turns to the window, the window to Steve’s bedroom. He freezes. This is the closest he’s been to Steve in a long time. The closest he’s been to him since…Bucky gulps. He could turn back. He could go back to his rooftop. It would be simpler. It would make more sense. But the fire escape is blocking the rain drizzle, and he can almost feel some of the heat escaping through the window. He puts his flesh hand against the glass, and sure enough it’s warm. Bucky can’t remember the last time he was warm. He worries his bottom lip. He could go inside. Just long enough to get warm, long enough for his clothes to dry a bit. Just long enough to see Steve in person, not through a scope or a window. Steve wouldn’t even have to know.

Before Bucky’s hand can even fully comprehend his own actions, his flesh hand is pulling on the windowsill. He curses, because Steve is a fucking idiot and didn’t even bother locking the fucking window. Bucky pushes the glass up with ease, making no sound as a pleasant, welcoming blast of heat hits him in the face. He leans down, looking through the opening. Steve is asleep on his stomach, his head turned in the opposite direction of the window. Bucky’s eyes scan the room quickly, then return to Steve, soaking in his sleeping form. His breath hitches in his chest, and he swallows dryly, positioning his foot on the windowsill to hoist himself inside of Steve’s bedroom.

☆☆☆

Steve’s hands curls into his bedsheets in his sleep, his fingers reaching out for Bucky. Just a few more inches. That’s all he needs to be able to grab Bucky’s hand, to pull him back on the train. Just a few more inches…

Steve stirs, the dream slowly fading as consciousness begins to creep up on him, leaving foggy reminisces of his nightmare in its wake. His eyes shoot open wearily. Something doesn’t feel right. He sits up in his bed immediately, not even bothering scanning the room because his eyes fall immediately on the window. A figure is crawling through it, making virtually no sound, the posture and skill of someone who’s done this a million times before.

The lighting in Steve’s bedroom is nowhere near as good as the lighting in his living room. His bed room is facing another apartment building, and it’s a rare occasion for any light to leak its way into the room, it’s one of the very reason’s that Steve chose to make it his bedroom. But Steve doesn’t need a well-lit room to know who’s crawling into it. He would be able to sense him just by presence alone.

The figure straightens up, still yet to have made a sound, and freezes when he sees Steve staring at him.

Steve swallows hard, wiping his sweaty palms against his bedsheets, nervous to ask the question he already knows the answer to. “….Buck? Is that you?”


End file.
